


swim to shore

by fencesit



Category: Leverage, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Sameen Shaw, Portland Oregon, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-18 18:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20643824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fencesit/pseuds/fencesit
Summary: Sameen Shaw drags a number out of the Willamette River and, against her better judgement, straight towards Eliot Spencer.





	swim to shore

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meatball42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/gifts).

The bang of her enemy's gun is loud, covering up the softer sound of Sameen firing at the same time as she pushes today's number into the Willamette to keep the girl from getting shot. A bullet wings her, grazing her shoulder, but it's worth it: Sameen's bullet strikes the guy in the throat and he drops like the sad sack of meat he is. 

It used to be that Sameen would aim for the kneecaps with this job, but she doesn't have any backup anymore. Even Fusco is on the other side of the country, with Bear, so it's just Sameen and the numbers and the Machine, most days. Can't take as many risks. 

Her number is floundering in the water, scratching and flapping against the side of the boat for something to hold on to, hissing panicked inquiries quietly ("Shaw? Shaw? Are you okay? Shaw, did he get you? Shaw, I'm a terrible swimmer, please be alive, oh my god, Shaw—") until Sameen joins her in the river and helps her swim to shore. 

It's not going to do anything good for the graze on Sameen's shoulder, but she should be able to clean it out soon. They're not going far. 

The bank of the river is a complete fucking mess, of course, bushes and mud and trash, but it's not the worst river Sameen has ever crawled out of. She pulls her number up the bank and hustles her past the buildings that line the river and towards the road. They've emerged from the Willamette between I-405 and the Broadway bridge and Sameen had directed them to the southeast side of the river, so as soon as they cross the parkway and the railroad tracks they're in the Pearl District. 

Some people might think something like, _so we're basically home free_, but not Sameen. 

First of all, nothing's a sure thing. There's probably at least one more person to shoot between the edge of the Pearl District and their destination; the team hired to take out Sameen's number might have had people following the boat by car along the shore, in which case they would have seen the muzzle flash of that dead meathead's gun going off even if they didn't hear it. Sameen can't count on _all_ of her enemies being incompentent, and bailing from the boat after you shoot someone on it is pretty much common sense. Better to assume there might be more obstacles in their path to relative safety than to assume things will be fine. 

Second, nothing is ever free, and the safety that Sameen is steering her number to is going to be very, very costly. Money is no obstacle, even without Finch in her ear directly bankrolling things, but not being a problem doesn't mean it can be completely ignored. Pretty much everything is about money. 

Sameen's number clings to her as they move through the Pearl District, but it's better than having her wander off. By this point, Sameen has played bodyguard for several teenagers, and she has to say that being shot at has really made this one easy to deal with. 

Neither the Machine nor Sameen have an appropriate safehouse in Portland, and she's not sure she'll be in Portland long enough to set one up. Sameen had called Fusco when it'd become clear she could really use a safe place to stash the girl while she did something about whoever had hired the hit squad, but he couldn't even hook her up with a good cop in the area ("What am I, Miss Congeniality? Why would I know anyone in Portland?") so she doesn't have any good contacts in Portland law enforcement, either. 

So Sameen had considered the criminal element in the area. 

  


At this hour, the Bridgeport Brewing Company is dark, its outdoor seating all packed away for the night. Sameen can't loiter around in the street with her number, so she takes the girl around back, through the small parking lot and into the alley where Sameen breaks in through the back door as politely as possible. _Politely_ means she breaks as little as possible, shuts the door behind herself and her number, and puts her gun away. 

The back door leads right into the kitchen, probably for easier food waste disposal. Sameen and her number loiter awkwardly between the clean dishes station and the industrial dishwasher, which even now is rumbling softly. Sameen hates standing there with her hands empty waiting for someone dangerous to approach, but not having her gun out saves her from being stabbed: 

Eliot Spencer enters the kitchen completely silently, in the dark, and even though Sameen is looking for him she doesn't notice him until he's right next to her, knife drawn, saying, "Talk quick." 

"I'm here to hire you," Sameen says. "What's the going rate these days?" She doesn't look at the knife — she focuses on the light from the security light outside falling in faint shadows on Spencer's face, focuses on his shadowed eyes. 

If she pays too much attention to his body language, he'll stay on-guard for a knock-down, drag-out fight that Sameen can't afford. Eliot Spencer might run a brewpub these days, but it's certain that he's just as deadly and ruthless as ever. 

"Shaw." Spencer's eyes flick over the pocket where she put her gun, her mud-slicked pants, her empty hands. "I'm retired. Get out." 

Sameen takes a large step back, pressing her number towards the door. "I can pay," Sameen asserts, "and no one really believes you're retired. What's your price?" 

There's no room for negotiation here, and there's no way Sameen can turn around and leave with her number without trying her hardest to hire him. Eliot Spencer is made of the same stuff Sameen is made of. Sharp and unrelenting. Bloodstained and willing to do what needs to be done — except that this asshole has always done it for the highest bidder, and for a long time that highest bidder was famed and despised weapons dealer Damien Moreaux. 

Hirsch used to curse Spencer's name like it was a mantra. 

The number behind her has curled forward into Sameen's back, her wet hair pressing against the nape of Sameen's neck, her hands gripping Sameen's ruined leather jacket. She's shivering, either from fear or the chill of being soaked with cold river water and half-covered in mud. Maybe both. "Shaw, let's just go," her number says — but Sameen knows if they walk out that door her number will probably die on the yuppie-infested streets of the Pearl District. 

Unacceptable. 

Worse, Spencer's eyes have now shifted to Sameen's number. It can't be that he's just noticed her, but Sameen figures he must have automatically dismissed the shivering, cowering teenaged girl as not a threat before. 

"Don't look at her," Sameen snaps, anger welling up in her because — because her arm hurts like a bitch and needs to be cleaned, because she won't be able to fight with her back pressed up against her number and her number's back against the door, because Eliot Spencer is a dangerous asshole and Sameen should have just sent Finch's jet (the jet she still thinks of as Finch's) to go get Fusco. 

"What're you doing with her?" Spencer asks and does not stop looking at Sameen's number. 

With Sameen's luck, he's recognized her as the recently-orphaned and even-more-recently-emancipated heiress she absolutely is. Fuck. 

At this range, trying to draw her weapon will just get Spencer's knife shoved somewhere tender and lethal. "Don't worry about it, we're leaving," Sameen says. She steps forward into Spencer's space. She's ready to delay him while her number makes a hopeless break for it; she's ready to maybe die for it, because she'd lost her knife while getting her number onto that boat in one piece. 

"She's helping me!" Sameen's dumbass teenage number blurts out, like that means anything to a man like Eliot Spencer. "Leave her alone, asshole!" 

Something flashes by Sameen's peripheral vision, thrown clumsily but not inaccurately by Sameen's number. Spencer bats it out of the air, and it lands on the floor with a crash. A plate or something. At least Spencer isn't running one of those places where everything is served on a piece of scrap wood. 

Sameen's never seen anyone throw Spencer's own dishware at him, but the results seem pretty predictable. She swears and shoves her number towards the door. They'll have to take their chances with the first cop they find. Maybe they can find a fed; the FBI is full of crap but they're less likely to be corrupt than locals. 

"Wait!" Spencer calls, but Sameen doesn't. 

This was a bad idea. Finch never would have let her bring a number to see Eliot Spencer — but, then, Finch would have had a safehouse set up, and Finch wouldn't have let her work alone in a strange city, and Finch would have made sure there was a getaway car. 

Being self-employed sucks. 

Her number proceeds Sameen out the door into the alleyway. Spencer pursues but doesn't strike, for reasons that become immediately obvious: there's an unfamiliar man and woman waiting for them in the alleyway, boxing Sameen and her number in between Spencer and the dumpsters. 

"You're ruining movie night," the woman complains, like Sameen is supposed to really believe that Eliot Spencer and associates sit around having _movie nights_. 

The man grabs Sameen's number, who struggles, screams, flings her elbows, and ineffectually tries to kick the man in the crotch. Since neither of them have tried to shoot Sameen on sight they're probably with Spencer, but that's not necessarily a positive. 

"I hope you paused," Sameen says. She's gotten this far with her number and isn't going to be stopped here just because Spencer has a crew — she lunges forward, willing and able to go straight through this woman if she has to. 

"Parker!" the man calls, panicked. He's probably able to tell that Sameen is going after this woman exactly as she'd go after Spencer, under the assumption that a man like Spencer doesn't keep useless people around. 

The woman has good reflexes. Sameen doesn't realize she has a taser until it's zapping her straight into helpless unconsciousness. 

  


When Sameen wakes up she smells popcorn. Someone's eating it. Crunch, crunch, crunch. She opens her eyes. "She's awake!" someone calls out. 

It's the woman, Parker, sitting on the armrest on the other side of the couch Sameen is laid out on. She's watching Sameen with the kind of focused, intent look scientists sometimes get about their experiments. She has a large bowl of popcorn balanced on her knees and she doesn't look at it or at Spencer when he enters carrying a bowl full of steaming food. She just looks at Sameen. 

Sameen hates it. 

"No fighting," is the first thing Spencer says. 

"No promises," Sameen shoots back, pulling herself up with a body that aches until she has her back against the armrest, her legs pulled back away from Parker. She's probably not capable of fighting Spencer right now, maybe not even capable of escaping, but fuck him for giving her orders. 

Spencer rolls his eyes at her and walks to the other side of the room. He hands the bowl off to Sameen's number, who's looking freshly-showered and very comfortable. The pajamas she's wearing look about the size to fit Parker. She gives Sameen a nervous little smile and clutches the bowl to her chest. Smells like chili. 

Sameen, for her part, has had her jacket removed and her arm cleaned up but is otherwise just as filthy and damp from the river as she was before. So at least she's probably ruining Eliot Spencer's couch. 

"Eliot said you're scary," Parker says. She says 'scary' like most people would say 'extremely generous'. 

"I am scary," Sameen agrees. 

"I didn't say that," Spencer growls in a tone Sameen has seen make hardened criminals flinch. 

Parker does finally look away from Sameen to focus on Spencer, but not with any fear. "It's okay, Eliot, all your friends are scary." 

"We're _not friends_." 

"You always say that," a new voice says. The man who'd grabbed Sameen's number, bringing a laptop in from another room. 

Spencer ignores this new comment, instead asking, "Are you ready to run it, Hardison?" in a tone that implies Hardison had _better_ be ready to run it or Spencer is about to have a problem with him. 

"Hold your damn horses," Hardison says. He walks past the couch and sits down in an armchair that matches the one Sameen's number is curled up in. "I was thinking we could use our words and explain first instead of waiting for her to get all punch-y again." 

The brief look Sameen gets at his screen puts her in mind of Finch's research into numbers — there's a picture pulled up that's probably of the late father of Sameen's number. "I'm listening," Sameen says, because she doesn't have much of a choice, and anyway, if this is a kidnapping, it's fairly gentle. 

"Right, good," Hardison says. His eyes dart over to Parker. "Babe?" 

Parker has set the bowl of popcorn aside and dusted her hands off. She leans forward. "Right now, you're suffering under an enormous weight," Parker says. "We provide...leverage." 


End file.
